


A Day Free Of Obligations

by ryssabeth



Series: Metropolitan Art [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Homless Character, M/M, Modern AU, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They spend this time interrupted, together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day Free Of Obligations

It’s a weekend with nothing important going on. Enjolras wishes he could say differently, but there is _literally_ nothing going on this weekend. And so Sunday morning pulls him out of his flat, into the watery sunlight common of the end of winter, and decides that perhaps today is a day for a walk, if nothing else. (This week has been surprisingly productive—discourse and discussion, occasionally heated _arguments_ between different policies to increase and keep turnout at important things—mostly with Grantaire.

He looks like nothing else when he is arguing.)

His trek finds him in the _Jardins du Ranelagh_ , where families and children go to gather, where aspiring students of the arts go to admire the small sculptures, and where couples go to rest in the sunlight (especially now that spring is coming).

It is also—apparently—where a student in a ridiculous knit cap balances precariously on statues, gesturing wildly with his arms, above a group of children (a collection of many different ages).  Enjolras can’t decide if he is aghast—shocked that an _art_ student would stand upon a sculpture—or if he’s amused—which becomes slightly more likely as he gets close enough to hear when Grantaire is saying.”

“And the dragon looks down upon the people of the village—the people who’ve harassed him for generations, who’ve attacked his home and his family—and he says ‘I hope you realise how close I am to sucking the marrow right out of your bones.’” Enjolras snorts, and Grantaire’s eyes move from the children, standing around him with bright eyes, to him.

(He almost slips off the statue, bracing his hand against the head of a woman who’s curved into a ball.)

“And then a golden god descended from the heavens and said to the lizard-beast, ‘you ought not do that,’ and the dragon replied with an irritated scowl, ‘well all right,’ and that’s it, that’s the end of the story. Tune in next week for illustrations and a new tale of adventure and fantasy.”

The children murmur—and shout—a _thank you_ chorus, and Grantaire hops off of the statue, the green jacket, tied around his waist with the sleeves, flutters as he does.

“Humouring children’s ideas of dragons?” Enjolras scoffs—but with an air of fondness, just a little bit.

“I humour a lot of people,” Grantaire explains. “I didn’t think _you_ did mundane things like go to a park where there wasn’t a fight to be had,” he says as Enjolras meets him on the grass, picking up his knapsack from the base of the statue, slinging it over his shoulders.

“I do like a good brawl,” Enjolras says dryly, “as long as no one hits the face.”

Grantaire nods, grinning to reveal teeth that are just slightly crooked—something Enjolras had not noticed before, despite the smile that often sits on his face. “That would be a terrible shame. But, who knows, a broken nose could add character so that statue thing you have going for you.”

“Are you implying that my face needs character building?”

“I’m implying that perfect symmetry such as yours, except that thing your mouth does when you smile, is a little bit offensive to the rest of us.”

(Enjolras never knows what to do with compliments—and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to Grantaire’s.)

“My deepest apologies.”

“None necessary. What are you doing here, today?” He shifts the cap on his head, pressing his curls closer to his ears.

“Nothing in particular,” Enjolras admits, a breeze stirring the air around them, carrying the winter’s final chills around with it.

“I haven’t done today’s reading for political debates,” Grantaire says, something lighting up in his eyes when he tilts his head, “so I don’t know if I’d be any kind of company—but on Sundays I got to museums after I hang around a park for a while. Could I interest you in some Art History education?”

(Grantaire bounces on the balls of his feet, an absent spending of energy as he waits for a response.)

Enjolras honestly doesn’t have any plans for today—if he were truly desperate for entertainment, he supposes he could study, or go to Feuilly’s (where that stupid sketch is pinned obnoxiously to his wall) and watch television.

But, instead of settling on any of those options, Enjolras sighs and says, “sure. I doubt I’ve seen all the museums in Paris. Where to?”

“The _Petit Palais_ —it was going to be the museum of Modern Art, honestly, but that one is having some refurbishing done and a new collection brought in—so I had to change my plans.”

“You’re a very scheduled individual,” something that Enjolras hadn’t expected.

Grantaire looks at him. And his lips twitch. “There are things I’d change my schedule for.”

Enjolras doesn’t quite, exactly, understand what that means (despite how obvious it sounds).

-

The museum is near the Champs-Elysées, and Grantaire spots it before Enjolras does—but that is no surprise. He’s been here, a few times. “You know,” he says, casting a glance at Enjolras and refusing to admire his profile, “Eponine, before working got to be so common, used to come with me instead—my first semester—“ ( _your only semester_ his brain corrects), “—she and I skipped class, on a Thursday I think, and we went to the _d’Orsay_ for _hours_ , mimicking the poses of statues and paintings.”

Enjolras snorts, checking both his left and right before he steps into the street to cross—Grantaire falls into step beside him, walking to the rhythm that Enjolras sets. “That sounds like something everyone would pay to see.”

“She probably has the photos—it was a good day.” (Classes had gotten to be too much, life too much—it was when the bottle had become less a hobby and more a lifeline—and Grantaire can’t honestly explain what the tipping point was. But that—that was a _good_ day.)

“I’d like to see them sometime.” Enjolras grabs the door to the museum—and they each get a ticket to tuck away into their pockets—and the traffic sounds outside get sucked out the door.

There are quite a few people here, but not a horde—which is not surprising. Most tourists that come like to see the big ones, the ones with names that sweep the world with their celebrity status.

The natural light is striking—which is why the museum stops giving out tickets at five. The wide windows and light are wasted in the darkness, and sometimes artificial light just doesn’t do it justice. (And, with a glance at Enjolras, he realises this can be the case for people too—definitely.)

A chill sits inside the museum and Grantaire unties his jacket from his waist to pull it up his shoulders, sliding his knapsack off for just a moment.

“Do you _own_ another coat?” Enjolras asks with a chuckle.

(His insides are gripped by ice and embarrassment, but he grins.) “Nope. Why should I? This has been my favourite jacket since my last year of secondary school. Never needed another one.”

Enjolras hmms—and to steer the conversation in his favour, Grantaire begins to gesture—and tell about the artworks (statues and pottery and paintings, everything he can see, room after room—though Enjolras prefers the paintings. _“Do you paint?”_ he’d asked—and Grantaire had replied, _“not in a year, or two_ ” and he’d kept talking, because he doesn’t want to explain _why_ ).

The conversations—despite their occasional discomfort—are easy. Grantaire likes it—he _loves_ it, and that word punches a hole into his spine, his legs going numb with the feeling.

“What’s this one?” Enjolras nods to a 19th century French painting—just to the right of a Gros piece.

“That’s a Monet—he’s excellent at Impressionism, that was his thing.”

Enjolras turns his head toward him. “You really do know a lot about art.” ( _Introduction to Art History, first semester_ —but also personal research, he supposes.) The sun will be setting soon—the rooms going orange instead of staying a steady yellow-white. And they’ve wandered back to the entrance anyway. “What are _your_ plans, this evening?”

Grantaire blinks, starting at the question. “Probably—go home,” the Champs-Elysées Metro station, tonight. It’s why he had elected for this museum over other ones, “—or something. You?”

Enjolras inhales—his chest expands with it, and Grantaire thinks he’s never seen a ribcage do its job so well, and he’s drawn a lot of ribs. “Do you want to have dinner or something at mine? Not—I just don’t see you as much as the others. I think I’d like to see you more.”

He fights the urge to wheeze—to explain that _no_ , _you really don’t—I’m a drunk, often sad, often belligerent you really don’t want to—_ and he clears his throat. “I could—yeah. I mean—sure. Depending on what you’ve got lying around, I could make _you_ something. I’ve made stuff for Gavroche before, when Eponine had to catch a second shift at work.”

“And let _you_ use my kitchen?”

“I’ll treat it like a temple?” Grantaire offers, watching Enjolras’ mouth turn into a lopsided smile—and _oh_ there’s the fist again, this time shoving _past_ his spine, through his back, and clutching at his heart. ( _Oh God._ )

“We’ll see what you can do.”

They leave the museum, and Grantaire’s skin feels full to bursting, stretching out over feelings and ideas and lies that fill him up like water—like alcohol.

(The urge to take Enjolras’ hand—to feel the callouses in his grip—is almost too much to bear.

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and hunches his shoulders against the comfortable weight of the backpack on his shoulders.

 _I could love you,_ he thinks.

 _As if you already don’t_ , a voice replies.)


End file.
